I arrived on Lesbos at 6 am and, out of habit, took a taxi to Mytilini's bus station. The cabbie, also acting out of habit, charged me an exorbitant amount for the short ride, causing me, in turn, to perform the now familiar ritual of cursing him soundly before slamming the door. A wispy-haired old lady, with one tooth left in her lower gum, watched me drag my suitcase to the seat beside her and, once I had done so, told me that the station would not be open for two hours. Then she asked brightly if I would walk to the other side of a nearby park to buy her a loaf of bread; she was particular about the kind of bread she wanted, describing it at some length.
		This was not my first encounter with old Greek ladies of this type: Zen-like apparitions, they typically strike when their quarry is dazed and vulnerable. Once, when I was hitchhiking in Epiros, an old lady approached me as I clambered off the back of a utility truck; I had just endured a reckless downhill drive from the mountain village of Metsovo, during which the driver had taken hairpin bends from the wrong side of the road.
		`Herete,' said the crone, `would you be so kind as to give me some Nivea cream?' Shaken and covered with sawdust, I automatically opened my bag and gave her the cream. She thanked me and disappeared. Similarly, I now did as requested, eventually returning to the bus station with warm bread and tiropites, cheese pies, for our breakfast.